


Busman's Holiday

by December21st



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Futurefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December21st/pseuds/December21st
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes getting away from work is harder than you would think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Busman's Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Written for doves_wing on the occasion of the **Heart of Gold** gala event at LiveJournal's Castleland.
> 
> Warnings: A couple swear words. This story contains some emotional triggers that also spoil the story. If you’re affected by particular triggers, see the notes at the end of the story, where I have revealed them. They are NOT non-con or character death.
> 
> Beta: Thanks to the betariffic lone_pyramid.

This is not my story. My story starts after everything’s over. It’s a story of life and death; of pain and sacrifice; of desire and despair. As you’ve probably already guessed, it’s a love story.

We get the call at the Sheriff’s Department about one o’clock Tuesday afternoon. One of the housekeepers over at the Seaview Inn is screaming bloody murder – literally. My money’s on Mabel Finchley. Mabel watches too many movies and has 911 on speed dial. Since I’m the sheriff, there’s really not any question that I’ll go.

Deputy Peter Wu’s just coming on duty, so I grab him and head over to the Seaview. Peter’s good to have around, both in a real emergency and when Mabel’s overacting about something again, like the rabid pit bull that she trapped in the hotel laundry room that one time. It was a pretty big rat, I’ll give Mabel that. We don’t often get much in the way of serious crime around here – say what you like about Maine towns, but Winter Bluffs has always steered clear of the troubles they’ve had in other towns like Derry or Haven.

When we arrive at the Seaview Inn, Jasper Woldecott’s outside waiting for me. The Seaview is owned by some folks from out of town, but Jasper’s the manager. Jasper and I went to school together; he pulled my hair until I cried in second grade and I gave him a bloody nose in a playground fight in the eighth grade. Just in case you’re wondering if that means we _like_ each other, I’m a married woman and Jasper’s boyfriend owns the flower shop over on Main Street.

Jasper shows me to a second-floor room where one of the front desk clerks is, for want of a better term, standing guard. On the way Jasper explains that the room is currently registered to a Sam and Stacy Sebastian from Bangor. He uses the master key to let us in the room, but stays out in the hallway himself. I’m a little surprised – Jasper likes being where the action is; the center of attention if he can manage it.

Peter Wu takes one look at the room and bolts for the door, gagging. My stomach does a somersault, but I stay where I am. The room’s normally pretty wallpaper, striped in nautical colors, is splashed with bright red. There are chunks of … something else … mixed in with the red that I’d rather not think about too much. The woman on the bed is staring sightlessly at the ceiling fan, and I’m glad I can’t see the back of her head from where I’m standing. I check her hands, and the floor beneath the bed. There’s no sign of a gun. At first glance, it looks like murder to me. Of course, I’ll have to wait for the experts to have their say.

Speaking of experts, Doc Wilson shows up about then and shoos me out of the room. Doc is on the county payroll as medical consultant, coroner, crime scene pathologist, and about three or four other things that I can’t remember off the top of my head. If it has to do with any combination of medicine, science, or crime, Doc Wilson either takes care of it himself or knows where to send it.

I leave Deputy Wu, still looking a little green around the gills, outside the door while I head downstairs to the main office with Jasper. Jasper gives me all the information he has on the Sebastians, which isn’t much, and a list of all the guests currently registered at the Seaview.

There’s one name on the list that stands out to me. I’m not aware of any laws that say you have to use your own name when you check in to a hotel; you can call yourself Nick and Nora Charles if you like, as long as you don’t leave any unpaid bills or a bad reputation behind for the real Mr. and Mrs. Charles when you check out. But when one of the guests checks out without leaving, I guarantee you that the first people that I want to talk to are the ones checked in under a name I recognize as being phony, although not quite as blatant as Mr. and Mrs. Charles.

My destination is the Seaview Suite, the best room in the hotel; and that’s saying something. I know Jasper charges an arm and a leg for just one night, and this couple’s nearing the end of a two week stay, so I have to assume that serious money is involved somewhere. Lady Justice will still be served; she’ll just have to be on her best behavior. It’s a top-floor suite with floor-to-ceiling windows along the whole wall facing the ocean, only interrupted by a cozy wood-burning fireplace. The entire suite is arranged so that everything you do faces the majesty of the Atlantic, from mixing drinks at the bar to waking up to the morning dawn in the king-sized bed. The surf crashing into the bluffs a couple hundred feet below just adds to the effect. Since the entire building practically teeters on the edge of the bluffs, privacy isn’t a concern unless you’re worried about helicopters. The back wall of the lounge is a library, with nothing published after 1900, and sinfully comfortable lounge chairs facing east. A travel writer once called it one of the best places on the face of the planet to disconnect from reality while still having all the comforts of home.

I knock on the door and a handsome man answers. He’s probably the other side of forty but has a cherubic face; he’s tallish and somewhat stocky, although neither one to excess. I’ve gotten pretty much every reaction in the book when people see my uniform, and his face runs through half a dozen of them before settling on “curious.”

“Officer? May I help you?”

“I’m Sheriff MacKenzie Thompson. May I have a few minutes of your time?”

He opens the door wider, inviting me in with a gesture. “Do they call you Mac?” he asks, as though I’ve come over for Sunday brunch, and he wants to get to know me better.

“Sheriff Thompson will do, thank you.” I’m not going to tell him that they call me Tom because old Sheriff Mills thought it was hilarious back when I was his deputy, and it stuck. A leggy brunette appears from somewhere else in the suite, carrying a book and using her finger as a bookmark. She’s younger than him, not enough to be scandalous, just enough to be interesting.

“According to the hotel register, you’re Mr. and Mrs. Ellery Queen,” I tell them. ‘Ellery’ opens his mouth to say something, but I can’t resist turning to the brunette and saying, “So you must be Nikki.”

‘Nikki’ turns and smacks her companion on the arm. “I told you someone would recognize us. But no, you had this whole secret identity thing worked out.”

“No, they didn’t … she didn’t … it’s not the same Nikki!”

Oh good. This won’t be complicated at all.

‘Ellery’ turns to me, looking a little frazzled. “Sheriff, I’m Richard Castle.” I’ve heard of him, of course. I’ve been a mystery fan since I was in junior high, checking out every Agatha Christie and Erle Stanley Gardner book I could lay my hands on. I even read one of Richard Castle’s about ten years ago, although to be honest, I didn’t particularly like it. But then, I prefer the classics. I shake his hand when he offers it.

“Am I to assume, then, that you are not Mrs. Castle?” I ask, turning to the woman. It’s the same old story. Check in to a hotel under a pseudonym to keep the wife from finding out about the mistress, and, if you’re famous enough, to keep the paparazzi from finding out about the affair.

“Not a chance. I’m Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD.” This should be interesting.

Detective Beckett turns to Mr. Castle before I can ask any questions. “Castle, explain ‘not the same Nikki’ in one paragraph or less.”

He takes a breath. “Ellery Queen had a secretary-slash-love interest named Nikki Porter. Their relationship was a little fuzzy, because of when the stories were written.” He almost stops there, but can’t resist adding, “Queen was also a consultant for the NYPD. He assisted his father, Inspector Richard Queen of the Homicide Bureau. See, I told you they were perfect for us.”

I can see from the look on her face that she doesn’t like being relegated to the role of secretary, even in a fictitious entry in a hotel registry. And from his wary expression, he’s figured that out too. He turns to me in a desperate attempt to change the subject of the conversation.

“What can we do for you, Sheriff? Unless one of our fellow guests has been murdered in his sleep, I don’t think we’re going to be able to help you. We haven’t left the room all day.” He’s kidding, right? His smile tells me that he thinks he’s joking. At least, I hope that’s what it’s telling me.

“Now that you mention it …” I tell them, watching both their expressions. They’re both bright; what I’m implying registers in seconds. They’re not horrified, the way most people would be. They’re nonplussed but quickly accept what I’m saying. Castle is almost laughing, one of those “you have to either laugh or cry” kind of laughs that doesn’t fool anyone. He wraps his arm around Beckett as she buries her head in his shoulder, her shoulders drooping in resignation.

“I don’t believe it,” Beckett mutters into his chest, then shakes herself, pulling away from him and facing me with unexpected steel in her eye. “I’ll do anything I can to help, Sheriff. Your case, of course, but I don’t imagine you get a lot of murders here, and I’ve solved a few in my time with NYPD Homicide. And Castle has helped out from time to time too.” Well, this should be handy.

“Think of it as a busman’s holiday, Beckett,” Castle tells her with a cheery grin.

She glares at him. “Working vacations are for overpaid executives and writers who can’t meet their deadlines.” Her look softens as she looks back at me. “And, apparently, homicide detectives.”

Beckett spends the next twenty minutes schooling me in Homicide 101. Some of it’s obvious, some of it’s not, all of it’s interesting. I like that she starts with “first make sure I am who I say I am” and gives me her badge number and her captain’s name. Even in that short time, it’s clear to me that she knows what she’s doing. Castle also has suggestions, although his are less practical and more creative.

From there I meet with Doc Wilson again; he’s got the basics for me – time of death (between ten and eleven o’clock this morning) and she was shot with a small caliber handgun at close range.

And then I have to tell Sam Sebastian that his wife is dead.

I’d like to say that he’s consumed with grief but that’s not the case. He comes across as detached, uncaring about the news, and at first it makes me suspicious. As the husband, he’s my prime suspect until someone more plausible comes along. I poke and pry just a little further; not too hard, not too much. If he’s innocent, I don’t want to make this experience any worse than it already is. If he’s guilty, I just need him to give himself enough rope to hang himself with. Eventually he explains his reaction, and it all makes a tragic sort of sense. Stacy Sebastian was a cancer survivor. This vacation was supposed to be a celebration of Stacy’s being officially in remission. Her husband had spent the last two years faced with the possibility that his wife might not survive; the news of her death in a way felt like a resolution to something he’s been waiting two years to happen.

The Sebastians were in town for about three hours in the morning. They returned to their room around ten o’clock, where Stacy planned to take a nap and sketch the ocean from their balcony. Sebastian left the hotel again and wandered around town some more, even going to a movie that he knew Stacy didn’t want to see, returning to find a deputy waiting for him in the lobby.

The Sebastians run a small antique store in Bangor. Sebastian claims that she didn’t have any enemies, that their marriage was a happy one, that nobody would benefit from her death, not even him; the cancer had left their finances in ruin. I make the notes necessary to corroborate his claim.

I spend the evening talking to all the guests that were checked in when Stacy Sebastian died. Per Detective Beckett’s suggestion, I talk to them all individually; I separate spouses and lovers and simple travelling companions, all for fifteen minutes of confession that I won’t tell anyone about as long as no serious crimes were committed. Father O’Doule down at the church would be proud of me, heathen that I am. I talk to Beckett and Castle individually too; again per Detective Beckett’s suggestion. Something about avoiding the appearance of favoritism if anything comes to trial.

Beckett’s surprisingly unhelpful as a witness. She stayed in her room all day until I showed up at her door. They had room service for breakfast and lunch. Unless Castle snuck out while she was taking a nap, around noon, he was with her the whole time. I ask if she heard anything between ten and eleven, and she had to know that question was coming, but she still blushes bright red before mumbling a denial.

“She was shot, you know.” It’s the first thing Castle says to me after he comes into the room. Beckett told me that the first thing a witness says is usually the thing that they consider to be the most important, but it’s not necessarily the most relevant to the case.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Castle, the county coroner was able to confirm a single gunshot wound to the head. Did you have some reason to think otherwise?” I try to keep things polite and professional.

“No, not Stacy Sebastian. Well, her, too, I suppose. Beckett was shot. Six weeks ago tomorrow. Someone …” He stops talking, and it’s evident that it’s still hard for him to talk about it, or even to think about it. “A murder suspect didn’t like the questions we were asking, so he put a bullet in her stomach and tried to escape while I … while I called 911 and tried to convince Beckett to stay conscious.”

“Did he escape?”

“No. Detectives Ryan and Esposito are both very good shots.” His voice is triumphant and bitter at the same time, and I can guess at reasons that include wanting to vindicate his lover and sorrow that these detectives now have blood on their hands, no matter how justified it was.

“She spent a week in the hospital, and three more weeks recovering at home, and no matter what she said, she wasn’t ready to go back to work, so I talked her into going on vacation. We’d talked about it before, going someplace where we could be together and not have to worry about the press or anyone knowing.”

“Nobody knows you’re here?”

“Well, sure, our families and a handful of friends, but nobody that will tell anyone.”

“And by ‘anyone’ you mean the press?”

“We just needed to get away for a while.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out quite the way you planned.”

“It never does.”

I finish the rest of the interview, and his story matches Beckett’s. He throws in a few theories about rappelling down the side of the building and remote-controlled model helicopters, but denies leaving the room that day, even openly mentioning that he didn’t leave while Beckett was taking a nap. At first I wonder why he’s trying to incriminate himself – is he covering for Beckett, or someone else? But after the suggestion featuring a C.I.A. assassin, I realize that it’s just what he does.

When I ask if he heard anything between ten and eleven, he pauses a moment to consider. For just a moment, a big, dopey grin lights up his entire face before he shakes it away and tells me that he doesn’t remember noticing anything. Unless they’re very good at this, I’d say their alibis are corroborated.

Not many of the other guests were actually on the premises when Stacy Sebastian died, but one who was thinks that he heard someone arguing around ten somewhere near the Sebastians’ room. The subject of the argument appeared to be another, unnamed woman.

By the time I’m done with the guests, Doc Wilson has finished doing his post-mortem and it reveals something I wasn’t expecting. Stacy had fired a gun not long before she was killed. If it weren’t for the fact there wasn’t a gun anywhere near her, all the evidence would point to suicide.

The next day, I briefly reconvene with Beckett and Castle, updating them on what I’ve discovered so far. Beckett offers to come down to the Sheriff’s Headquarters to help with some of the legwork – in this case, more phonework than anything else, but I politely decline and suggest that she enjoy her vacation. Castle throws me a brief look of gratitude when she’s not looking.

The final piece of evidence comes into our office thanks, believe it or not, to Mabel Finchley. When Mabel spots a glint of metal in the hotel’s dumpster, when other people would be thinking old saucepan or car parts, Mabel immediately thinks it’s a gun. Only, in this particular case, she’s right, and the fingerprints tell a fascinating story of their own.

That evening I have a very interesting conversation with Sam Sebastian. I present him with the theory I’ve come up with, which he tearfully confirms. His story matches the evidence and I’m left wishing I could charge him with more than interfering with a police investigation.

I leave a brief message for the Queens at the Seaview, and go home to a dinner long since cold and a husband who always waits up for me no matter how late I get home.

The following morning, I make one final visit to the Seaview Suite. There’s luggage in the hallway and a pair of coats slung over one chair; ‘Mr. and Mrs. Queen’ look ready to check out.

“I wanted to thank you, one last time, for all of your help in this matter. Both of you. I don’t know if I would have figured it all out without you.”

“I’m sure you would have done just fine, Sheriff,” Beckett tells me warmly.

“Did you ever find out why she did it? Why she killed herself, after spending so much time and energy fighting for her life?” Castle asks.

“Her husband admitted everything yesterday. He asked her for a divorce that morning. She couldn’t have children because of the cancer treatments, and Sebastian really wanted a big family, so he waited until she was fully recovered and then told her he was leaving her. He thought that would be kinder. There’s not even another woman. She just couldn’t give him what he wanted. Then, when he found her around noon, he took the gun and left again. Don’t ask me why he didn’t just throw it over the bluff – he just wasn’t thinking clearly. He claims that he did it for her, so she wouldn’t be thought of as a suicide, but a selfish man like that? I find it easier to believe that he took it to cover up his own responsibility for Stacy’s suicide. ”

“Bastard.” Castle says it with more venom than I would ever suspected him capable of, and goes to stand in front of Beckett, his hand cupping her cheek in an unasked question. I’m missing something.

Beckett nods to Castle, letting him know she’s okay, and explains.”You know that I was shot about six weeks ago?”

I nod agreement, still having no idea where this is going.

“Four days after I was shot, the doctors told me that I would never be able to have children. The bullet tore me up too badly inside. Castle was there when they told me. I don’t think he left my side the entire time I was in the hospital.”

“I didn’t have anywhere better to be,” he tells her, watching her intently.

“I’d never realized before then just how much I wanted one. A child of my very own. Rick even tried to talk me into it a few months ago, telling me how much he wanted another one or … was it three?”

“Four,” he corrects her, grinning.

“I was really upset, and I might have said something about leaving me for someone with …”

“Let’s not repeat that for the nice Sheriff. Beckett was very creative. Also very vulgar.”

“That would be the company I keep.” She’s teasing him, trying to keep things light. “And I started convincing myself that I didn’t care, pushing Castle away, pushing everyone away.”

Castle presses his lips to Beckett’s forehead. I understand everything now.

“You lied to me.” I tell Beckett, smiling. She gives me a quizzical look. “The first thing I ever asked you. I read Dorothy L. Sayers, you know.”

Beckett thinks back for a minute, but she’s quick, and Castle flashes me one of those patented breathtaking grins that would make some women weak at the knees. Well, maybe even me just a little, but I am happily married, thank you very much. And I suspect I’m not the only one.

“And for those of us who aren’t familiar with the works of Ms. Sayers?” Beckett wonders.

“The final Lord Peter Wimsey novel is called ‘Busman’s Honeymoon’.” I explain.

Beckett nods in understanding. “Very good, Sheriff Thompson.”

“MacKenzie. Please.”

“The day after I found out I couldn’t have any children, Castle asked me to marry him. And for reasons that aren’t completely clear to me, I said yes. Today is our two week anniversary.” Beckett may give him a hard time, but she’s practically glowing when she looks at him.

Castle shrugs eloquently. “Having children with Beckett was a great concept. But I wanted to make sure that she knew that the reality of having her in my life forever was more important than any theoretical concept.”

Beckett kisses him then, playfully. “And I decided that I’d rather not have children with Castle than not have children alone, or with someone else.”

Castle stares at her. “You realize that made absolutely no sense.”

“I learn from the best.”

I escort them to the entrance of the Seaview Inn, where a taxi is waiting to take them to the airport. We exchange contact information with vague promises of keeping in touch. I hope they come back, but I won’t be surprised if they don’t. I don’t think I would either, under the circumstances.

That night I go home and my husband and I have a very honest discussion that we’ve been putting off for about a year. We decide if we want children in our lives, and just how important that is to us.

But you don’t want to hear about me. This isn’t my story.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Emotional Trigger Warnings:  
> 1\. Suicide of original character.  
> 2\. Not being able to have children, and how it affects adult relationships.


End file.
